Love and Larceny (4 page)

The stranger leaped from the saddle and
strode forward. “You are not fine, sir. You’ve obviously injured
your leg. Allow me to assist you.”

Wynn colored as he straightened. “It’s an old
injury, sir. Unless you are an amazingly gifted physician, I doubt
you could be of much service.”

The fellow stilled. “Hang on, don’t I know
you? William Fairchild, isn’t it?”

By the way his jaw tightened, Daphne thought
Wynn was gritting his teeth. “Wynn Fairfax. And yes, I remember
you, Sheridan.”

Sheridan grinned. He was rather handsome when
he wasn’t attempting to commandeer her horse. A fine example of a
Corinthian, he was long-legged and broad-shouldered, with
short-cropped blond hair and sharp gray eyes. His tweed greatcoat
lay open just enough to reveal a tailored bottle green coat and
chamois trousers tucked into gleaming boots festooned now with the
grass of the field.

“Be a gentleman, Fairfax,” he ordered, “and
introduce me to your charming companion.”

Wynn narrowed his eyes behind his spectacles,
but did his duty. “Miss Courdebas, may I present Mr. Brooks
Sheridan. We were at Eton together.”

Mr. Sheridan took her gloved hand and bowed
over it, his grip as sure as his manner. “Miss Courdebas, a
pleasure. Any woman who can manage her horse so well under trying
circumstances has my everlasting admiration.”

“Not so very trying,” Daphne said, retrieving
her hand. “I knew Wynn would be fine. The worst part was when you
tried to grab my reins. Rather rude, actually.”

She thought she saw Wynn hide a smile even as
Mr. Sheridan blinked in surprise.

“My apologies, madam. Allow me to say that
had I known I was up against an Amazon, I would never have dared to
interfere.”

Amazon. It was a common sobriquet applied to
her. It meant a woman of uncommon valor and athletic abilities.
While she knew she dared what some other girls might fear, she
thought any number of other ladies might have earned the name, had
the gentlemen just paid more attention.

“I suggest you listen for cries of ‘help’ and
‘mercy me’ before attempting a rescue in future,” Daphne told him.
“Or perhaps ‘I am an idiot on horseback.’ Failing that, I’d leave
the lady to her own devices. She might surprise you.”

“You certainly have,” he said.

Wynn laughed, then turned the noise into a
cough.

Sheridan looked his way. “So what brought you
to Somerset, Fairfax? Visiting relatives?”

“I have the honor of escorting Miss Courdebas
to a house party with the Earl of Brentfield,” Wynn replied as
their horses, now calmed, bent their heads to nibble the grass.
“These are his lands.”

He almost made it sound as if Mr. Sheridan
was trespassing.

The Corinthian struck his hand to his
forehead. “I thought those trees marked the dividing line between
Prestwick Park and Brentfield. But when I saw Miss Courdebas
struggling with her horse—”

“Ahem,” Daphne said, scowling at him.

He inclined his head. “That is, when I
mistakenly thought I saw Miss Courdebas struggling with her horse,
I could not sit idly by. I only wish I had an excuse to tarry in
the area, for I find it of uncommon beauty.” He gazed at Daphne for
a long moment, and she suddenly realized he was flirting.

He liked her. As a woman.

She beamed at him. “A shame indeed. It’s a
wonderful area for riding, and Lord Brentfield has his own archery
field and bowling lawn. I warrant a gentleman like you could do
both justice.”

He smiled, showing straight white teeth in a
face that hinted of being kissed by the sun. “Ah, a lady after my
own heart. I’d be delighted to partner you in any sport, my
dear.”

Now his voice had taken on a decidedly husky
quality. She’d rarely heard it from the fellows thronging her
sitting room, but she knew it was meant to put a lady into instant
transports. Better and better.

“Too bad you must leave,” Wynn put in. “But
we wouldn’t want to detain you.”

She wanted to detain him. Handsome, well
spoken, bruising rider—why wouldn’t she want to know more about
Brooks Sheridan?

“I have it!” she cried. “You can join
us!”

*

Wynn’s stomach sank even as Sheridan’s smile
widened. The fellow was the same sort of gentleman who routinely
looked down on Wynn for his injury. And he certainly didn’t need
the Corinthian cozying up to Daphne.

Especially when Daphne showed every
indication of wishing to cozy back.

Her
cheeks were pink now, her blue eyes sparkling. She tucked an errant
strand of golden-brown hair behind her ear as if self-conscious of
her looks. She seldom did anything like that in his company. He
wanted to pick her up, throw her on the horse, and ride off with
her before Sheridan agreed to her offer. But he knew his leg would
not stand up to the challenge, and neither would his friendship
with Daphne.

“You are too kind, Miss Courdebas,” Sheridan
was saying in that deep voice that set the ladies to sighing. “But
I could not impose on Lady Brentfield.”

“He will make us odd numbers at table,” Wynn
pointed out, then cringed inwardly. He sounded like a waspish
dowager!

“I’m sure it won’t be a problem,” Daphne
said, to both of them it seemed. “Lady Brentfield is a particular
friend of mine, and there are dozens of bedchambers to spare. Ride
back with us, and we’ll ask.”

He took her hand and bowed over it once more.
“Your servant, Miss Courdebas.” Releasing her, he strode for his
horse, then paused to glance back at them. “Need any help to
remount, Fairfax?”

Heat flushed Wynn’s face. “No, thank
you.”

Sheridan nodded, then grinned at Daphne. “I
know better than to ask you, Miss Courdebas.” He put his foot in
the stirrup and vaulted into the saddle.

Daphne sighed. It wasn’t a huff of annoyance
at the display but an exhalation of appreciation. The heat that had
brushed his face seemed to lodge in his chest.

“Sure you don’t need a hand up?” he
asked.

“No, thank you,” she said with a smile.
Taking the reins, she led her horse to a rock jutting out of the
field and stepped up on it to push herself into the side saddle.
With a nod to him, she clucked to the stallion and began ambling
back toward the manor.

“What a woman,” Sheridan said as Wynn led his
horse to the rock to mount the same way. “I hope my pursuit of her
won’t diminish our friendship, Fairfax.”

Friendship? They had no friendship. Sheridan
hadn’t even remembered his name correctly. Wynn eyed him. “Not at
all. But don’t expect me to wish you luck, for I intend to capture
Daphne Courdebas’s heart myself.”

Sheridan gathered up his reins. “It seems we
are rivals then. May the best man win.” With a nod, he turned his
horse and rode after Daphne.

Wynn followed suit. No doubt Sheridan thought
himself the better man, and Wynn feared Daphne might agree, at
least for the moment. But he was not about to concede the
field.

Sheridan might be good looking and exude a
certain charm, but he had been a lazy scholar and a cunning
gamester at Eton. Perhaps because he had attended the elite school
on scholarship, he had done all he could to ingratiate himself with
the more affluent students from powerful families. All had agreed
that Sheridan was a great gun, a good fellow. By the way he had
so-subtlety endeared himself to Daphne, it seemed he had not lost
the knack of landing himself in the pudding.

He certainly poured on the butter sauce when
they reached Brentfield. The rest of the company at the house party
was out on the north lawn, strolling about. The reflecting pool
made the soft white of the ladies’ muslin gowns look like so many
clouds drifting in the summer sky. Sheridan immediately set about
complimenting the ladies as Daphne introduced him to them. Lord
Brentfield called Wynn over to where the earl and Sinclair were
conversing.

His lordship tipped his chin toward the
newcomer. “A friend of yours, Wynn?”

Sinclair was frowning, but at the earl’s use
of Wynn’s first name or the stranger in their midst, Wynn couldn’t
know. Daphne had told him about her former art teacher’s husband.
David Tenant had been a leather worker in Boston before learning he
had inherited the titles and estates of Brentfield. Daphne claimed
he had refused to change his character or manner to fit in with
Society’s dictates. Even now, he wore a tweed coat and brown
trousers that might have belonged to a country shepherd rather than
a man of property, and the breeze ruffled his brown hair which was
unconfined by a top hat such as the other men wore. Still, Wynn
couldn’t help liking his frank, open manner and easy way of
speaking.

“We attended school together,” he told the
earl, glancing to where Sheridan was bowing so deeply to Hannah
that Wynn might have thought the little dark-haired lady was the
heir apparent to the throne. “We did not spend a great deal of time
together.”

“I’ve heard of him,” Sinclair put in. “Rumor
has it he was offered a place in Lord Hastings’s intelligence corps
but politely refused.”

Interesting. Wynn knew that Sinclair himself
was rumored to be a member of the intelligence corps. He’d
certainly been part of the investigation of the French spy the
night Wynn had met Daphne. But that Sheridan had refused to join
that exalted company puzzled Wynn. It would have seemed a natural
use of his talents, convincing others to spill their secrets for
king and Country.

“Then he’s a member of the aristocracy,” Lord
Brentfield surmised.

“He is accepted,” Sinclair agreed, with
enough of a lift of his dark brow that Wynn was reminded Sinclair’s
father was not only titled but a famous Parliamentarian, highly
revered by Society. “His parents died when he was young. I believe
he was raised by a spinster aunt under duress.”

Now Sheridan was attempting to commend
himself to Lady Rollings, if the way Daphne’s mother was simpering
was any indication. Still, Wynn couldn’t help a momentary feeling
of kinship for the fellow. His own father had died of consumption
when Wynn was ten. For a time, it was feared his mother and sisters
might have contracted the disease as well, and Wynn had suddenly
found himself facing the fact that not only was he now the man of
the family but potentially the last member of the family standing.
He wouldn’t have even had a maiden aunt to raise him. How hard must
it have been for Sheridan, raised in a household where he always
felt beholden?

“What say you, gentlemen?” the earl asked,
his own blue gaze on Sheridan and the ladies. “Should we extend an
invitation to Mr. Sheridan to join our little party?”

Sinclair shrugged his powerful shoulders.
“The more the merrier I say, my lord. Fairfax?”

They were both regarding Wynn. Here was his
chance to tell them to send the fellow packing. Why should he
encourage any additional competition for Daphne’s hand?

Yet what sort of man feared competition?

“Certainly, my lord,” Wynn said. “And I
commend your hospitality.”

Daphne laughed then, the joyful sound
carrying across the still waters of the pond. Sinclair and Lord
Brentfield smiled before the younger man excused himself to go find
Ariadne.

Lord Brentfield took a step closer to Wynn.
“And I commend your generosity, Fairfax. Not many men would
encourage a rival. But then again, perhaps our Daphne already knows
the gentleman she prefers.”

That, unfortunately, was exactly what Wynn
feared.

After a quick consultation with David and the
taciturn butler, Hannah extended an invitation to the fascinating
Mr. Sheridan. He promised to return shortly with his things after
thanking her ladyship and Daphne with great charm and wit on the
north lawn.

“Even though we are all spoken for,” Ariadne
said, swishing her white muslin skirts as she watched him ride off
toward the far wood, “it never hurts to have another presentable
gentleman about.”

“Indeed,” Priscilla agreed, head cocked so
that her fashionable chip bonnet pressed her golden curls against
her creamy cheek. “Just because you’re full doesn’t mean you can’t
admire the cakes on display.”

“I for one would prefer to know what’s inside
that cake,” Emily put in with a frown, hands brushing her navy
skirts. “What do we know of Mr. Sheridan? What is his purpose for
rusticating in the area?”

Daphne frowned as well. “You begin to sound
like Lady Minerva.”

Emily blushed, glancing to where her elderly
aunt and Daphne’s mother were strolling together. By the few words
that drifted across the lawn, Lady Minerva was apparently
attempting to school Daphne’s mother on the finer points of raising
willful young women. Lady Rollings’s countenance was growing redder
by the moment. Ariadne excused herself to go intercept the pair,
and Hannah and Priscilla moved to join their gentlemen where they
were studying the reflecting pond as if with every intention of
either fishing or diving in.

“Forgive me,” Emily murmured to Daphne, hand
going to rub her forehead inside her feathered bonnet. “I didn’t
sleep well last night.”

Daphne brightened. “Oh, was Ariadne right
about the haunting? Did you see a phantom?”

Emily shook her head. “No, though an
apparition would have been preferable to my dreams, which were
nothing short of bleak.” Now her gaze darted to where her Jamie was
speaking with Sinclair. Ariadne’s betrothed had expressed keen
interest in the Runner’s profession and had singled him out for
conversation as they all moved about the lawn in the summer light.
Daphne could only wonder if Sinclair thought to enlist the Runner’s
services in some case of espionage.

Emily did not look so certain. Indeed, if Daphne had been writing
about the scene as Ariadne was wont to do, she would have said her
friend was pining. All Emily had ever wanted to do was paint. She’d
thought joining the Royal Society for the Beaux Art, the premiere
group of aristocratic painters, would be everything she could
desire. And then she’d met her handsome Runner, and all else had
paled in comparison.